I can taste the poetry of madness on the wind.
It tastes like desert clay and bonfire ash.
It tastes like dust on your thighs.
It smells like mad boys with black pistols, and sour-wine sweat.
It feels like hot sun on rusted steel, desert heat and crucifixion sex.
The slow, deep grind of a frustrated apocalypse reaching for release.
The rythmm of ancient drums,...
Read More
*Does voodoo spell to erase any of my shinanagans last night from your mind. And everyone elses for that matter.